


Unconventional Dealings

by Tink_Wondering



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf Clint Barton, Fae & Fairies, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Modern Era, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tink_Wondering/pseuds/Tink_Wondering
Summary: Clint is and will always be a little shit, no matter the universe.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Unconventional Dealings

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by [this Tumblr post](https://deluxeloy.tumblr.com/post/615288841072443392/human-deal-fey-very-well-when-you-return-home)  
>   
> You can find the text version of the post in the end notes.

“Hi and welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., the Supernatural Help, Invocations, Enchantments and Lore Division! We are the shield to your friendly and not-so-friendly neighborhood.”

The girl at the reception—Darcy, her name tag reads—greets him with a loud cheer, although it felt slightly forced. At the same time, Clint thinks that if he were to work on a Friday afternoon with nothing to entertain him, he’d also greet any customer with exuberance. Friday afternoon rhymed with the end of the week, and only a few stragglers were left in the lobby.

“Mustn’t have been a good day for the person who created the acronym. Aren’t invocations and enchantments kind of the same thing?” Clint highlights with a shit-eating grin. He deems it his personal mission to save others from uninterrupted boredom. Sadly, although Darcy looks amused, she continues her spiel as if he hadn’t interrupted.

‘ _Right_ ,’ Clint notes mentally. ‘ _S.H.I.E.L.D. is a serious business that does not allow their employees to laugh._ ’

He still counts it as a win considering he wasn’t thrown out of the building. And Clint learned the hard way that some people really can’t take a joke. The Tracksuit DraculasTM being the prime example. Still, they got what they deserved, and Clint is now saddled with an apartment building that he does not know what to do with. (Does he look like someone who would know what to do with knocking pipes? His first instinct is to call a fortune teller to speak with the ghost, and isn’t that absurd that he didn’t even think of the plumber? Simone and Tasha think so. Traitors.)

Still, the girl seems far from the kind of people to throw others out for a bad joke. Her mismatch outfit screams more ‘I don’t care about your mansplaining’ while subtly giving off a ‘but I will deal with you if I have to’. (And okay, he might spend too much time helping Tasha put together her outfits or as she calls it ‘Giving useless nicknames to clothes and being in my way, Clint’. At least, he listens when she rants about men’s stupidity.) Darcy is wearing a fiery-red blazer over a neon green blouse which is tightly fastened over her ample bosom using square aquamarine buttons. Also, a bright yellow version of the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo is pinned on the lapel of her blazer—he highly doubts those are endorsed by the company. If he didn’t know their insignia contained an eagle, he would’ve thought the wings were rays of the sun beaming down to smite them all. As it is, he thinks the bright colors are imprinted forever on his retina and he’s now blind to darker colors.

“Your problems are important to us. We know that every emergency is time-sensitive, and we do our best to treat them according to time of arrival, but priorities will be given to life-threatening cases.

“Please note that shapeshifters now have their own department in the east wing. The reception is situated on the third floor. However, if yours or your kin’s recent shapeshifting abilities have resulted in a ravenous monster—not unlike the Hulk—you will need to present yourself in the sublevel 5 of the main building.

“Demon invocations have been suspended for the time being while the summoning chambers are under renovation. Our new book ‘ _Witch: more than a name_ ’ is sold in our boutique. Inside, you will find testimonies of modern witches, harmless potions to ‘dust off your spice rack’, and safe _incantations_ for witches-to-be to try at home and _enchant_ your everyday life.

“Also, soothsayers would like to remind anyone that if you wish to see them, they know, and they will call you,” she ends ominously, blowing a breath as if she ran a marathon.

Clint is exhausted for her. Also, he understands why she hadn’t reacted much earlier. Kudos to her to have pointed out the differences between invocations and enchantments without wavering from her speech. (And he’s not sure S.H.I.E.L.D. can assure timely handling of cases with that long an introduction.)

“Now that’s out of the way what can we do to help you?”

“Are you contractually obliged to use the royal we?”

“Nope!” She pops the -p loudly, though at this point he doesn’t think she can do anything quietly. “But the internet says that it gives off a feeling of belonging. The same way you would give personal information to someone holding you at gun point. Not that customer service is like being held at gun point, BUT—” she exclaims to regain control of the conversation, and some of the stragglers flinch at the sound, “when you have dealt with a distressed octopus turned human—with all its excess limbs remaining—you learn to adapt.”

She flails her arms around in imitation of the distressed octopus or maybe it’s simply her usual composure. To be sure Clint wouldn’t know which it was, the sun decides at this moment to shine through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the entrance and bounce off Darcy’s pin right into his eyes to further blind him.

“I’m not sure what to address first or if I should address any of it,” Clint squints. He hopes she doesn’t take it as an offense. If displeased, she would probably scream and he’s sure his hearing aids would give out on life. He’d totally be at her mercy.

“People have learned to let it flow, comrade. Don’t you, Jasper!” She hollers at someone behind Clint.

When he turns around, he finds himself facing a faun. He has to blink a few times to be sure he’s seeing correctly. He knows S.H.I.E.L.D. helps deal with supernatural beings, but he didn’t think they hired them. Protecting something and fighting for it doesn’t necessarily come hand in hand. A.I.M. (Against Inhumans Movement or as Clint liked to call them the _Assholes Individuals Movement_ —yes, he isn’t any better at acronyms) is proof of that. Their purist view promotes supernatural discrimination to the point of genocide. Despite that, they still work with witches. (Although in a sick kind of way, go witches for finding work.) It wouldn’t have surprised him if S.H.I.E.L.D. dealt with supernaturals without their input. Although this point is moot now. He mentally adds one more point to the pro-column of asking S.H.I.E.L.D. for help. He’ll also have to put it down on paper to show Tasha if she wakes up.

The man (creature? being?) has two small horns protruding from his bald head and his legs are on full hairy display—hooves included. Despite these two unusual characteristics, Clint can firmly categorize him as an everyday nine-to-five government employee. Slim silver-framed glasses, dark blue wool jacket over a white shirt and pin-striped tie. The typical attire for a boring job as an accountant or analyst.

“Whatever you’re saying, Miss Lewis, I wholeheartedly don’t agree,” the faun replies without stopping, probably used to the receptionist’s antics.

“One day you’re gonna bite your words and regret not agreeing with me,” she yells to his retreating back and sticks out her tongue. The horned man doesn’t turn around, but he stops long enough to clap his left hoof twice on the ground and flick his leg higher back at them before continuing on his way. Clint is not sure what the move means but seeing as Darcy cracks up it must be something rude in faun language.

As if what just happened proves her point, she gestures at where Jasper once was. For his sanity decides to ‘let it flow’ as Darcy said.

“Hm, I see your point,” he ventures. The point being not that clear and with a hint of Stockholm syndrome, but Clint kind of understands the girl’s easygoing attitude. Being human in a supernatural world, it is often easier to accept the little things you can control and let go of the rest. “And you don’t need to use the royal we with me. I don’t plan to hold you at gun point nor am I an octopus turned human. See, only two arms.” He puts both arms up and can’t help the smirk when she openly checks him out.

“I wouldn’t mind doing a further examination to verify your claim,” she says leaning down over the counter and displaying her ample bosom in plain view of anyone passing by the front desk. He fears for his eyes again. At any moment a button will pop, and he’ll lose an eye.

“Hmm, well, I’ve never been here before,” he says gesturing at the grand entrance. In part to bring the conversation back to its first purpose, but more so to move out of the buttons’ probable trajectory. “I need a genie to grant a wish?”

“Sadly, genies’ hours are from one to five, Mondays through Fridays on appointment only,” she informs him professionally. She has drawn the artillery back behind enemy lines; her nails now clicking rapidly on the computer in front of her. “And their next availability is in three months,” she adds apologetically her eyes darting around the screen to look at the possibilities. “To grant a wish you could also see a god, though you’d need an invitation, and those can take up to either 6 months or a lot of money.”

“Not really an option,” he mentally eliminates the suggestions and tries to see if his lore knowledge can point him to another creature who would do. “I need something with a shorter time window.”

“You could ask a shaman, but they are only available in our Chicago office,” she offers.

Clint ponders the suggestion, but he’d prefer not to leave Tasha alone for more than a few hours at a time. She has been cursed, and now she was in no condition to take on an enemy. While sleeping—in a coma?—Tasha is an easy prey. He takes enough risks leaving her without any protection on his trips to find help. He may own the building, and his tenants may be loyal to him, but his apartment doesn’t have any magical protection—which he should really look into when he’s done with this.

And he knows he should have come earlier, but once someone was registered within S.H.I.E.L.D. it was impossible to get out. He doesn’t think Tasha would like to have her identity listed in a government database. (Thus, explaining the need of the list of pros and cons for coming to S.H.I.E.L.D.. He likes that his insides are not outside his body. Right. He’ll forget the cons. He doesn’t need to give her more ammunition.)

Also—not that he wants to justify his tardiness coming into S.H.I.E.L.D.—it had taken them a while to find out about the effect of the curse since Tasha went into slumber last week, even though she’s been hit a month ago. At first, he had hoped that she would dream-walk in his sleep to tell him what was going on—even though she preferred to use her abilities sparingly. He was even ready to give her some his life essence if she were to dream-walk with him, but radio silence. So, he had come to the only probable conclusion, she wasn’t able to dream-walk. Since it’s her main source of sustenance, he fears that she’s fading fast and there’s not much he can do. A wish granted by a genie is the last solution he could think of.

He’s still weighing his options, wondering if maybe he could amass enough money within the next few days to meet a god, when someone comes up beside him.

“Excuse me.”

The voice interrupts Clint’s thoughts and its smooth tone envelops him in a warm embrace.

“Miss Lewis, would you mind sending these files to our Miami branch?”

For sure his basic hearing aids don’t even give this voice justice, but what he hears is rich and deep. And, though the words are not directed at him, the sound brings calm to Clint’s tumultuous mind, like a breeze pushing unwelcome thoughts away. And when the wielder enters his field of vision, the sight is as captivating as the sound.

The first thing he sees is a hand, tinted green. He follows it up to an arm clad in a light-grey linen suit. Clint is no expert in tailoring, but he can see the line of the suit molding the newcomer’s arms and thighs quite deliciously. The muscles are subtle—unlike Clint’s—but he can feel the power the body is withholding. Also, if he were to move from the front desk, Clint is sure his ass would look just as exquisite. The material seems supple enough to give a wide range of motion while highlighting his physique.

Although the man aims to pass as bland and unassuming with the suit and politeness, the effect is completely lost on Clint. As much as thoughts of the faun was relegated to the back of his mind, thoughts of this man will stay at the forefront of it. Because, if the guy before looked like an accountant, the beautiful creature presently in front of Clint would be the opposite. He doesn’t doubt that they’d be a match in a ring, and that they could go at it for a while. It may be thanks to the callouses Clint glimpsed on his fingers when he passed the files—why and how does a supernatural develop gun calluses?— but Clint doesn’t buy the unassuming persona.

When he looks up, the same tantalizing green tinge is on his neck and face. A pale green shade only the sun through a leaf could create. The tone would pass as human under the right light, but it would also allow its wielder to disappear into the forest. For that, he would need to be naked, Clint’s mind supplies. He’d need to slide the tie from around his neck, then proceed to undo each button of his shirt one by one—

“No worries, bossman” Darcy salutes the man. She gives Clint a sideways look as if she knew what he was thinking which is not impossible. He has to stop himself from leaning in and do something stupid like sniffing him. He usually has way better game than this.

“Hey, boss! While you’re here, I know you haven’t done _it_ in a long time,” she adds slyly, the emphasis clearly for Clint’s benefit, “but we have a customer in need of urgent help.”

“I’m not sure I would be of much help,” the man says apologetically.

“None of that,” Darcy chides with a click of her tongue. “We are the shield protecting all lives, and for that we do whatever within our power,” she says dramatically, only the heroic background music missing. “Also, it’s Friday PM. No one would take on a new case before next week, and that’s if they had the time in their schedule. Which, surprise, surprise, no one does. Please, bossman, be the example we all wish to become when we grow up,” she says earnestly, her hands clasped in front of her in a prayer.

With a small exhale of breath in exasperation, amusement or inevitability—probably all of the above when faced with Darcy—the man turns his attention to Clint.

“How may I help you?”

If Clint was attracted to the different parts of the man earlier, the sum of these parts ignites a fire of desire within him. Mesmerizing sky-blue eyes lock on his, and he doesn’t know what to do with the attention.

The last he has felt such kinship to someone was with Tasha, when he had recognized the look she sported. It was the same one he saw every morning in the mirror at the time. A mix of defeat and determination, wounded animals ready to defend themselves at the first threat.

But with this man, Clint feels more than kinship. His presence is simultaneously soothing and electrifying. He wants to protect and be protected. He wants to see him uninhibited while also losing himself into him.

“You don’t have to,” Clint blurts out putting his hand up to put a physical barrier between. He doubts that is effective since he can feel his fingers twitching in his desire to touch. He is here for Tasha, he reminds himself. He’ll listen to his libido later. For now, he needs to look calm and collected. “I need a wish to be granted, but it can wait.” No, it cannot. That doesn’t mean he wants to force someone to do his bidding. He has been at the end of the short stick enough times in his life not to want to sully his fantasies—and what alluring fantasies his mind is already creating—with this harsh taint of reality.

“Would you mind telling me what this is about, and I’ll see what I can do? I’m afraid Miss Lewis is right, and I trust her judgement. I may not be able to help you, but I can expedite your case in the least.”

“I haven’t told her anything, how do you know I simply don’t want to wish someone dead?”

“Then let’s say I trust her judgment in character.” The man tilts his head to the side. Clint’s attraction hasn’t faded despite his best efforts, and he can’t help but melt at the sight. Now, his longing to cuddle with him is growing beyond the desire to claim and be claimed.

Seeing his silence, the man has taken it as acceptance and walked away. And Clint is weak. He was right before, because the man’s his ass _is_ exquisite. He is left behind gaping at his retreating back when Darcy throws a bunch of paper clips at him. With a mock scowl in her direction and a silent ‘thank you’, he shakes himself out of it and follows dutifully.

***

When Clint finally catches up with his improvised tour guide in front of the elevators, he finds himself short on what to say. His mind presently consists of many inappropriate thoughts flitting through his head as he traces the line of his suit through the doors’ reflection. Some thoughts are filthy and too decadent for public places—like how he wants to strip the man from his clothes and taste every inch of his skin—and some way too sappy considering Clint’s lack of successful relationships. He daydreams of snuggling together in front of the TV while eating pizza and swapping theories on the next season of Dog Cops.

“You know it wouldn’t work,” the man states as they wait for the elevators.

“What?” Clint stiffens and wrenches his eyes from the man’s reflection, trying not show how these few words affected him. Of course, this beautiful creature wouldn’t want him. He got ahead of himself again, and Tasha would—

“Wishing for the death of someone?”

“Huh?” Clint answers unintelligently. He would hit his head on the nearest surface if the man’s attention wasn’t on him.

‘ _Good job on looking calm and collected_ ,’ Clint silently berates himself.

“Genies cannot grant you the death or the love of someone. It is in their rulebook.”

“You think I’d need the help of a genie to attract someone?” Clint asks lasciviously with a side glance.

“No?”

Clint finds the uncertainty in the man’s voice adorable. And okay, he may be laying the charm on thick. But he doesn’t want the man to notice how rankled he was with the possible rejection.

“What did Darcy mean by _it_ being a long time for you?” Clint cannot help but rib.

“Other than the double entendre,” Phil says blandly, but Clint can clearly see the glint of amusement in his eyes, “I haven’t granted a wish, well more like made a transaction, since I was last promoted.”

“Oh, I don’t want to add to your workload.” Clint looks down disappointed. He doesn’t know if it’s caused by the many favors, he’ll have to ask to solve his problem or the fact that if Phil says they won’t be seeing each other anymore. He could have offered his help just to get rid of Darcy.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I couldn’t manage it,” Phil says with a small smile as if he read his mind. Still, Clint is willing to believe him. If you don’t trust someone who can quote the genies’ rule book, who can you trust?

“So, how long have you worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His brain settles on a job interview question for the next question, and Clint could have smacked himself again. And really, how long do these elevators can take to come to the main floor? There are five of them, surely one would have arrived at this point.

“For a long time,” he answers vaguely the small smile still firmly in place. It should be disturbing, but Clint is simply more curious. He wants to discover what amuses him, and what could make him break and laugh out loud. He wants it all with a man he barely knows. Maybe it’s a case of lust. Maybe it’s solitude in the face of losing Tasha. It could also be because it’s been too long since he last got laid or had a relationship. All he knows is he _wants_ this man. Then, he reminds himself of Tasha. This mission is not meant to be led by his dick. Just in time it seems, since the man asks him a question, “And how have you heard of the agency, Mr—”

“Barton, but call me Clint.”

“Then please, call me Phil,” the man offers magnanimously.

“That your real name?” Clint can’t help himself but ask mischievously.

“The easiest version for humans to remember.”

“Fair enough, Phil.” Clint extends his hand to make this feel even more like an interview. Their handshake may last longer than politeness would dictate, but Clint relishes the contact. He can feel the calluses he glimpsed before, but the main surprise is the cool feeling of the man’s skin against his. He barely has a thought to spare on body temperature before the elevator’s doors open, and Clint is forced to let go.

When the man— _Phil_ —presses the 38th floor, he understands the long wait. The 60 stories of the main building hadn’t registered with him when he had first gained information on S.H.I.E.L.D.. It still doesn’t compare with Stark tower and its 93 floors, though. However, the height of the building is a reminder of S.H.I.E.L.D. and its power.

“How have you heard of S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint?”

“Well, who hasn’t heard of it?” Two can play this game of evade the question. “What do you do for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Ah, I’m a simple office worker, an analyst of sorts.”

Clint doubts that’s all he is. The agency wants the population to believe that they are cool as a cucumber when in fact Clint knew that they had a reputation for doing whatever it takes to get things done. Not that it was a bad thing, but it put a certain tarnish to their immaculate credentials. Their employees fit the military type more than the paper pushers. Clearly, Phil’s calluses and muscles pointed to trained personnel more than analyst.

When the elevator arrives on their floor, Phil leads him to a door on the furthest corner.

“What did you want to wish for?” Phil asks when he closes the door behind them. His words startle Clint, and he doesn’t know how to voice his demand. It’s not really for him, but the best would be to find a loophole to avoid bringing Tasha into this. “Or should I say, _whom_ did you want to wish for?”

“Yeah, I do have a friend that needs help, and not in a ‘I ask for a friend but it’s really for me’ kind of thing, you know.” And Clint has no idea where this verbal diarrhea is coming from. “It’s that obvious?”

“Let’s say there aren’t many options for someone in need of a wish.”

Clint feigns being absorbed by the space configuration to avoid the question a while longer. Phil’s office is probably in the sun for most of the day, if Clint remembers correctly the layout of the building. Large bay windows cover two of the four walls with a view to a garden roof. Similar to the view, every space not dedicated to office apparatus displays a plant. The desk, chair and filing cabinet are what you would expect in an office. However, there is a small corner covered in green grass, large enough to let two persons sit face to face, if the low table is any indication.

Then, he sees something from the corner of his eye that doesn’t help him gather his thoughts. Phil is removing his suit jacket and tie. Then proceeds to roll up his sleeves to reveal even more green-tinted skin. When he’s done, he unbuttons the top of his shirt and Clint can see brown hairs peeking out through the opening. Who would’ve thought that supernatural creatures—other than werewolves—had a hairy chest? Then, he bends down in front of Clint to untie his shoes. Clint has to actively think not to swallow his tongue. The other man is not much taller than Clint, but bending down like that, his legs seem to go on for miles. Once he’s done, Phil takes off his socks and takes the time to stow them away in his shoes. He moves to the grassy corner, moves his toes to relish the feel of the grass between them and sits down in front of the small table.

“I brought you here thinking you might not want a public for this. Make yourself comfortable,” Phil offers when he’s done stripping and Clint has given no answer.

Not knowing what to do, he follows suit. Now also barefoot, he plops down in front of Phil, grateful for his back to the wall and the view of the door; may it be a conscious decision or not on Phil’s part.

“Now that we’re in a safe space, do you want to tell me what you need?”

Clint looks at Phil and Phil looks back. After a while, Clint realizes they’ve been staring at each other and that he’ll have to be the one to make the first move.

“First, I need to state something clear with you,” Clint says, his back straight and chest puffed.

Phil looks decent—even more than decent truth be told—and not like someone who would refuse his demands. He usually has the eyes to assess someone accurately. Except if S.H.I.E.L.D. has a tighter leash over its employees than he thinks.

“Yes?”

“Right,” Clint continues. “I won’t add my friend to your database.”

“Why do you think S.H.I.E.L.D. would want to add her to this presumed list?”

“Isn’t it what you do? ‘Helping’ supernaturals while collecting information on them?”

Clint does not do the finger quotes because he’s not that uncool, but his skepticism is clear in his voice. Phil has caught it judging by the intense look he gives him. Clint once thought he knew enough about S.H.I.E.L.D. and what their front hid, but the last couple of days spent searching have uncovered a whole mine of information. Hence the threat.

“Let’s say we do hypothetically have this list,” Phil says without admitting anything. “What would you propose?”

Clint had counted on seeing a genie and being able to wish for Tasha’s name not to appear on any records, but he’ll do with what he has. Anyway, their best contracts often ended with him and Tasha improvising.

“We do this outside of the S.H.I.E.L.D. parameters. I won’t stop you from entering whatever you want after we’re done, but you don’t push when I don’t answer something that I consider unnecessary.”

Once Tasha’s well enough, they can probably come back in and delete any information they don’t want known.

“If I refuse, will you threaten me with the iron knife on your ankle?”

Clint is not surprised that his weapon was found, but he still aborts his hand moving towards the ankle holster. He also mentally notes that the man sensed the iron, but not the other metals present in the blade. Tasha would know what species react badly to iron specifically. He wonders if he felt the weapon on his person from the start or just inside the office or even once he set foot on the patch of grass.

“Nothing against you in particular. It’s something I keep on me constantly to ward off supernatural beings.”

To show his good intentions, he slowly takes out the knife from its holster and puts it on the table between them. The knife is small, the blade as long as his palm. On the hilt there is a symbol resembling two cylindrical gears juxtaposed one over the other.

“Why not?” Phil finally says after a while. Seeing his disbelief, Phil simply raises an eyebrow and points at the color on the wall. “It is after five, after all. And I’ve been out of the granting wishes loop for a while, so people won’t ask questions about my recent dealings.”

Clint blows out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was only two minutes past five, but if these few minutes convinced Phil to help, Clint will not refuse him.

“Yeah, about that,” Clint starts brusquely trying to stave off his imagination. “How can you do that? I get it that you’re not… really human?” He trails off, only now realizing how rude he is being.

“I’m Fey,” Phil says, seemingly amused by him.

“Yeah, we established that earlier,” Clint says uncertainly. “And I’m Clint.” He adds a wave for good measure.

“Still a pleasure to meet you Clint, but I meant to say I’m a fey creature.” Clint flushes at his blunder. At least, he can blame his red cheeks on the mistake and not his attraction.

“And you can grant wishes like genies?”

“Not quite. We work more similarly to what demons and certain witches do. You don’t need to phrase it quite as perfectly and there’s no limit to the number of wishes, although I would ask you not to abuse it.”

“Right, of course.”

“So, what is the ailment your friend is suffering from?”

“You sure reading thoughts is not part of your abilities? You seem highly accurate with your questions.” Clint shifts on the grass.

“Analyst. I’m used to evaluating a situation quickly,” Phil answers blandly. Clint would bet a lot that the mysterious act is a mask Phil has learned to adopt when interacting with humans. It is part endearing and part frustrating as hell.

“My friend has been in a coma for almost a week for no physical reason. She intercepted a curse a few days before going into a coma. The witch casting it chanted something about being powerless.”

What he doesn’t tell Phil is that it happened after being ambushed by an attack from A.I.M.. Tasha and him never liked them for obvious reasons, their purist ‘Humans are the only beings worth saving’ ideology really rubbed them the wrong way. If they knew the Black Widow was more than a human, they would probably have done more than cast a powerless curse. Luckily for them, they had counted on her powers to be crazy strength or ninja moves instead of dream-walking.

“If it’s the curse I think it is, they usually prove deadly. For example, if someone’s power is their strength, every muscle in their body will lose its tonus. Even their heart.”

The question is unvoiced, but Clint can see the dubious look in Phil’s eyes. He knows part of the story is missing, though he won’t ask thanks to their agreement.

“She has the ability to dream-walk, but I haven’t seen her in my sleep since she’s been in a coma.”

“Kikimora,” Phil whispers under his breath. And if Clint hasn’t been on high alert, he would probably have missed it. However, he now does a double take when he hears it. He didn’t want to give too much information about Tasha, but he didn’t think anyone would jump from dream-walking to Kikimora.

“I have heard stories,” Phil offers when he sees Clint’s distrust. “Also, the blade shows the symbol of Vyi,” he states matter-of-factly. And okay, Clint will give it to him. It’s not that hard to link Slav symbols to Slav mythology when you know them.

This knife, Tasha had said, is blessed by the guardian of the Heavenly Border who take notes of the livings’ good and bad deeds. It is said, Tasha added with a smirk, that Vyi punishes wrongdoers with nightmares. She had gifted him the blade at the beginning of their partnership, telling him simultaneously that she trusted him, but if he were to break that trust he wouldn’t have the time to regret it.

“Do you think you can do anything for her?”

“I can try, but I cannot promise that it will work. In a way, her supernatural status has probably saved her.”

“What can I do?” Clint knows it’s too early to have hope, but he trusts Phil despite his reluctance to promise success or the fact that he knows him as much as he knows Darcy, barely.

“Do you have anything of her so I can hone on her energy?”

Clint reaches for the knife on the table. He holds the handle tightly, the blade pointing toward the fey.

“Once you hone on her, will you be able to track her again after this?” Clint questions.

“Only if I ever have something of her again.” Clint isn’t convinced this does not mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t come after them later since they’ll know of Tasha’s abilities. “It’ll be easier because I’ll know her energy signature, but it won’t be as easy as an on and off switch. She could also easily block me if she wishes so,” he adds to placate Clint.

Without another word, Clint hands the knife handle first and hopes this works or Tasha will kill him with her last breath. For now, she’ll probably be too weak to fight Phil. Whom Clint trusts without rhyme or reason.

Phil closes his eyes and takes deep breaths before beginning to chant in some old language Clint can’t pinpoint. Phil’s voice is deep and soothing, the chanting rhythmic. The grass they’re sitting on starts to bristle as if disturbed by a wind only it can feel, and Phil seems to be glowing. After a while, the tone grows harsher and less soothing like Phil is battling something only he can see. Then everything abruptly stops, which Clint finds anticlimactic.

He doesn’t know why but he expected smoke or the curse manifesting into smoke—and no he does not have pyromaniac tendencies. All they’re left with is a yellow patch of grass that looks in need of some water and sun. As soft as the bed of verdure was before, it was rough and itching now. As he looks around, Clint can see the other plants in the office don’t look any better, as does Phil. The pale green tone of his skin has taken on a yellowish hue. If he wasn’t sitting up and breathing, Clint would be more worried. It looks as though a small breeze could take him down. Finally, the fey takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

“And now?”

“If it worked, your friend will be in perfectly good health once more when you return. It’ll be like she was never cursed.” Phil relaxes his grip on the knife and hands it back to Clint.

“And if it hasn’t worked?”

“Then I am afraid there is nothing more I can do.” Phil seems sad at this. Clint doesn’t understand why. For some dubious reasons, the fey is doing him a favor, but it’s not like Tasha was his friend. In any case, there is nothing he can do for now, he’ll clear this deal with Phil and see what happened when he returns home. He takes a deep breath, centers himself once again and hopes for the best.

“So, first-born child?”

***

Phil’Andrelyos—let’s call him Phil for the simplicity of it, and that’s the name used until now—is not your typical supernatural creature. Where supernatural creatures aggregate into communities, Phil prefers the company of humans.

(Why, one may ask? Well, the answer is simple. If you think athlete’s foot is bad, imagine what it’s like on a werewolf. And if you’re worried about internet privacy, don’t even try living with an empath. The worst about mind-readers is their perpetual smug look. However, like anything else, there are ways to install an ad-blocker. Empaths either have a breakdown on you or they smother you until you only exude flower-smelling, rainbow-sighting, cherubs-singing happiness. Phil gets greener just thinking about it.)

Despite his global appreciation of humans and his inherent ability to see auras—which is surprisingly useful with humans’ tendency to hide behind partial truths—Phil has to use every piece of knowledge he has gained on them to maintain a semblance of control over his interaction with Clint. In part because the man is quite attractive. (Clint is broad-shouldered, and his arms are as strong as the branches of the ash tree he’d climb when he was a youngling. His sun-kissed hair and innate confidence are another check in Phil’s mental list of ‘Why he is attracted to this human’.)

However, other than attraction, his control is also in threads because he is surprised at every turn in their interaction. First, he had to leave first at the reception to limit the flush of green going up his face. This is in no part Clint’s fault—although the pink hue of his aura to show that the attraction was not unrequited did not help—but Phil has a reputation to withhold and it does not include ogling strangers in the lobby. Second, despite his knowledge about S.H.I.E.L.D., the man had the guts to storm the place with his demands. And Phil did not forget about the trust he put in a virtual stranger by letting go of the knife. Which brings him to his third point—and he has many more, but let’s cut this short—a kikimora has in return put her trust in Clint, which is unheard of.

So, here Phil is. Control in tatters thanks to a man he’s prepared to do more than he would for most people he knows personally. A man for whom Phil’s only clear thought is his attraction. The rest is in a quandary. This is why he should be excused for his undignified answer to the non-sequitur.

“What?”

“Shouldn’t there be a price demanded in exchange of my friend’s life?”

“And your first offer is a child?” Phil asks skeptically.

“Not _any_ child, my first-born,” Clint emphases as if it made all the difference.

“I fail to see how that is better.”

“It’s in all the stories,” Clint says with the exasperation of a 5-year-old explaining the obvious tree in his drawing. “The witches ask for a price, and—although I don’t understand why—the first-born is always requested. And you said that your powers work like those of a witch.”

Phil still fails to see how Clint imagined he was the kind of person to ask for a child. Though, to be fair, he finds it quite endearing. The man’s aura has taken on a lighter purple shade. It is a mix of blue for innocence and red for determination which he has never encountered as equally present in someone before.

“Thank you for this… offering, but I do not need your first-born,” Phil explains slowly to be sure he is not given a squirming baby in the future. “In fact, I don’t need anything from you.”

At this, Phil can see his aura takes on a dark orange shade on the outside. The lines in the Clint’s forehead deepen as his brows furrow. His open posture has closed off, the easy smile gone from his face. His relaxed position a reflection of his readiness to pounce when confronted with a threat. His hands are now resting on his knees, fingers splayed inches from the weapon he had stashed back into his ankle holster.

He thought it would please him to hear that Phil was acting out of the goodness of his heart. It seems he had not quite grasped the human nature yet.

“I didn’t—” Phil starts, but is interrupted by Clint.

“No one freely gives without wanting something. You may be asking for nothing now, but eventually you will change your mind,” Clint states without any doubt. “I prefer to pay upfront, and not have a nasty surprise coming down the line.”

“But I cannot promise that it has worked, so no payment is needed,” Phil says logically.

“So, your only argument is that we don’t know the outcome?”

“It is the basis of our exchange. If nothing has been granted, how can there be a price?”

“Easy peasy then, I’ll just call my friend.”

And Phil is surprised at such simple logic. He should have known that Clint was smart, that he would not go down so easily, even for something as inconsequential as an unwanted payment. Phil is not confident enough in his abilities to ask for compensation—even less for a child. What would he do with it? He’ll have to put thought to this payment conundrum if the curse is broken. He is not against making a deal, but he’s used to working through S.H.I.E.L.D. and having the proceedings handled by someone else. Still, in front of such earnestness, he already feels himself giving in to the man’s demands. He already folded like wet paper today, so he’ll easily do it once more.

Phil gets up and walks a little further away when Clint takes out his cellphone. He does not want to intrude on his call, although he doubts its efficiency—calling a number repeatedly and hanging before it is picked up seems counterproductive.

Still, while Clint is otherwise occupied, Phil takes a moment to center himself. Darcy hadn’t lied when she had first presented the option to Clint. He was not used anymore to sparing so much power. In fact, it took more energy than he remembers. He even has syphoned the energy from the surrounding living plants. Lucky for Clint, he has enough plants in his office or surely, he would have stolen part of his. He’ll have to bathe in the sun and spare some of it for his indoor garden. He mentally shifts his calendar for the next few days to do so. He then moves to his plants in the shaded corner and runs a finger through their leaves. Some of their color has drained away and small spots have appeared on their leaves. Phil silently promises to bring them back to full health soon.

“Of course, I was careful!”

Clint’s outburst startles him, but Phil only glances at him from the corner of his eye. He doubts he was meant to hear any of it. Clint smiles apologetically at him and lowers his voice. Phil posts himself in front the window with the lowering sun and waits for Clint to terminate his call. It seems it has worked after all. What should he ask in exchange for lifting the curse? He’ll have to find the most harmless price he could ask for.

“Love you too,” Clint says after a while, breaking Phil’s thoughts once again. If the iron in the knife was not a constant pressure in the back of his mind, Phil would not have noticed him moving to stand next to him. Taking the time to observe the man while he ends his call, Phil can see a burden has been lifted. His smile is reflected in his eyes, and the edge of his aura bleeds gold.

“ItworkedPhilthankyousomuchshe’sfinenow!” Clint says excitedly and embraces him. Phil is once again surprised, but he gives in and rejoices the contact. The play of muscles under his hands is an added bonus.

“And that means,” Clint says stepping back with a flush, “that you have a price to collect.”

Phil had hoped for a second that the good news would have made Clint forget about this. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be able to extricate himself from this part of the bargain. He goes back to the patch of grass and sits down, taking the few seconds to do so to think about it further.

“Then how about a secret?” Phil proposes when Clint joins him on the ground. It seems inoffensive enough and Clint could tell him anything he wanted, and Phil would accept it. He’ll probably tell him about how he stole some candies when he was young. And even if it wasn’t true, he would accept it. Not that he’s going to tell Clint that. He fears the man would enter another strop on the lack of price for this exchange.

“Is that enough?” Clint frowns again.

“How about I decide if it is or not after you tell me?” This is not the most agreeable terms for a contract, but worse comes to worst and Clint will refuse. He’ll then probably be able to make an excuse about it being is only offer. Since his friend is already cured, that will be it.

Phil is kind of sad to see the end of their interaction. Still, if all he gets is Clint’s world being a little less heavy for the day, he’ll take it.

“Fair enough, Phil,” Clint finally accepts, though still a little unsure. “I have a bow.”

He now has the reason for the calluses he felt on Clint’s hand when they first shook hands. It also explained the arms. Phil did not have an affinity to modern weapons, though he liked the sleeping gun he asked R&D to develop. A bow reminds him of the stories he heard as youngling of great warriors combatting dark creatures with only the gifts of nature at their disposition. Phil can imagine the man in the forest as the warriors of old, a simple bow at his hand. The archer’s shirtless, training days in and days out to shoot the perfect arrow to protect his clan. Sweat dripping down his hair, sliding down his neck, following the bumps of each vertebrae until it pools at the small of his back—

“It’s precious to me because it’s the first skill I have mastered. It gave me the chance to fly free,” Clint says with a glint in his eyes, probably noticing the fey was not paying attention. Phil is thankful for his lack of energy or his cheeks would be emerald at this point.

He thinks maybe Clint will stop there. He’s ready to tell him it’s enough, but Clint stops any interruption with a look. Defeated, Phil let’s a small burst of air out which on anyone else would pass as a sigh. Stubborn human is stubborn.

“I was living in a dump—well, I still live in the same dump to be honest—when the Tracksuit Vampires attacked.”

“I’m not quite familiar with these types of vampires?”

“Nothing extraordinary about them, except their lack of fashion sense.”

Ah. They must not be a subspecies of the Trackers then.

“What warranted the attack?” Phil had initially promised not to probe for information, but Clint’s childish glee at the recounting of the story is too endearing not to participate in.

“Many things, but mainly the mistreatment of animals and the fact that they worked for A.I.M..” Phil raises and eyebrow in surprise. Although violent, A.I.M. tended to be discreet when not involved in a coup. Clint seems to have misinterpreted the reaction, because he hastily adds, “Okay! I may have provoked them. In my defense, they were attacking a dog, and when I asked them to stop, they confessed to being A.I.M.. I took it as verbal abuse and retaliated. That’s when I met my friend. She was also trying to take them down.”

Phil is surprised Clint has continued, he was sure by now that the man would have clammed up, said his thanks and left.

“I don’t need more. If you want to stop here, I’ll consider us even.”

“I haven’t confessed to anything yet,” Clint disagrees. “Also, what you’ve given me is much more valuable. If this is what you want, then I’ll see that my debt is paid in full.”

Clint looks Phil squarely in the eyes, his determination clear despite Phil’s coddling. And Phil relents with a nod of his head, not that he isn’t happy at the demonstration of Clint’s trust in him.

“Since then, we’ve worked together. We were both in a bad place at the time and needed to vent our anger against the world. We made a name with not so reputable people, but it paid well.” Clint says sheepishly. Phil would not begrudge his way to survive. From what he has uncovered until now, his heart seems in the right place and Phil can’t say he has done much better. “Lucky for me I had the best partner along the way. Although I never miss when I shoot, it is harder to take supernatural business when you aren’t part of the community.”

“Not supernatural?” Phil asks curiously. The human didn’t give away anything suggesting he had any supernatural abilities, but you never knew. Even if it wasn’t that, there could be a witch’s spell or charm involved.

“Nope!” And Clint seems proud of his Darcy imitation. “A mix of hours of practice, and the eyesight of a hawk.” Many expressions cross Clint’s face, first smugness, then surprise that turns into horror. As stated before, Phil is not that well versed in human interactions, but every emotion is depicted clearly on the man’s face like the realization of what he said is dawning slowly on him. Clint doesn’t say any more and looks at a point past just shy of Phil’s right ear.

The mood has shifted from the trusting atmosphere, and Phil doesn’t know what to do to reestablish it. And it is that fact that leads him to pay closer attention to the man’s last words. Clint had clammed up after referencing his eyesight to a hawk. Was he a shapeshifter? Did he find it shameful? Phil could not accept that.

“Are you a shapeshifter?” Upon his question, Phil sees Clint becoming even more rigid. “Because if it is the case, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I know some humans are less than accepting but look at Hawkeye. Although some of his work is less than savory, he is rumored to be one, and he does good for the supernatural community. He is even partnered with a human.” Phil tries to reassure him, but Clint does not react any more, his aura taking on an ashen-grey color. He knows he didn’t feel Clint as a supernatural being, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have passed him by. Was it too forward of him to call Clint out on his possible lie?

“Eyesight of a hawk,” Phil says carefully watching Clint’s reaction to his words. The man flinches and looks around as if to search for the fastest exits. Now that he’s paying attention, he can see Clint’s running his left thumb along the callused pad of his first three fingers. Then it clicks, and if the man in front of him wasn’t ready to bolt at any moment, he’d berate himself for his lack of insight. It’s not the comparison to a hawk that Clint shies from, it’s the link to the eyesight. “You’re Hawkeye,” Phil says in awe.

Rumors were that Hawkeye had received the name thanks to his shapeshifting abilities. No one has come forth to say they’ve seen him do so, but the vigilante always disappeared before the police or even S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived. It is said that he flies away when the job is done. He works with the Black Widow whose name comes from a more nefarious rumor. She has had many partners before Hawkeye. And they have never been seen again, so people have assumed she ate them. He knows better since her previous partners generally end on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar thanks to anonymous tips. One memorable time, the guy was strewn outside one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s offices.

It seems they were wrong on most accounts about the pair.

“Yes.”

The response is short, and Phil wonders if Clint aimed to tell this secret or if it was done so by accident.

“Thank you,” Phil says sincerely.

“Wh—that’s all you have to say?”

“The foundation of our transaction required you telling me a secret in exchange for your friend’s life. Which I assume is the Black Widow?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. Still under shock, Clint simply nods his head. “Since you’ve completed the terms on your side, I am thanking you for trusting me enough with such a big part of your life. Also, it seems I’ll have to address the carelessness of the agents on your case.”

With that Phil thinks of the paperwork it all entails. Seminars will have to be held to agents in training if their S.H.I.E.L.D.’s level of espionage was as lacking as it seemed to be. Reports will be sent out to update the status of Hawkeye and the Black Widow—though Phil promises himself he’ll do it after officially claiming them as S.H.I.E.L.D.—and _Nick will have to be informed_. He can already feel the headache the situation will bring him. He’ll also have to draft three employment contracts; one for the joint enrollment of Hawkeye and Black Widow, but two for each of them just in case.

“Usually, when people learn this, they either want to take me out or recruit me.”

“I do have a whole spiel about recruiting you, but I thought I’d wait a little longer before sprinting it on you.”

“So considerate of you,” Clint smiles, not as perturbed as before.

“I’m nothing if not considerate,” Phil banters back. “You should pitch a S.H.I.E.L.D. employment to the Black Widow when you see her next.” Phil knows any decision Hawkeye makes about his future employer will have to be discussed with his partner. “Clint,” Phil says sincerely, and enjoys how the name rolls off his tongue, “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not as bad as it is depicted by certain circles. Much like Hawkeye’s and the Black Widow’s actions. I’m sure you’d both like to have backup from time to time.”

“Thanks, Phil. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask for.”

They both get up to because nothing else will be decided today and they both know it. Phil is ready to tell give him his card before he crosses the door. However, it seems Clint cannot leave without getting the last word.

“You know the offer still stands?” Clint finally says as he leans on the door frame.

“Offer?” Phil asks incredulously.

“My first born,” Clint says slyly, canting his hips invitingly. “We can even start now, if you want.”

“I know I’ll regret asking this, but would you care to elaborate?” Phil pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache is interaction with Clint has induced.

“Well, if you take my first-born it has to come from somewhere,” Clint supplies with a lascivious smirk.

“…”

He looks at Clint. Clint looks at him, not offering any help on the matter. Then it clicks. The taut lines of his arms to display his muscles, the jutting hips inviting him the V of them. Again, Phil silently chides himself at the lack of insight.

“Ah.” Phil feels the flush creeping up and imagines he must be brightly green. He had succeeded in keeping his reactions to himself until now, but he should have known when confronted with Clint it wouldn’t last. “You know I am male, right?”

“Doesn’t mean Fey don’t have their parts arranged differently,” Clint challenges. “I’m game to verify this if you are.”

And Phil prays for strength, because he’s not sure he’ll survive Clint and his unashamed flirting for the rest of the foreseeable future. But if it comes to it, he’ll go down happily.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I spend time on Tumblr after binge-reading Clint/Phil fanfics.  
> Hope you enjoyed!  
>   
> Here is the text version of the Tumblr post:  
> Human: Deal.  
> Fey: Very well. When you return home tonight, your mother will be in pristine health again. It will be like she never fell ill at all. Even the memory of her suffering will fade...  
> Human: Thank you so much. She means everything to me.  
> Fey: I know, I know. Let's hope the price wasn't too much for you after all... Only time will tell.  
> Human: So, when do we start?  
> Fey: ...If I may ask you to elaborate?  
> Human: You said you wanted my firstborn.  
> Fey: Yes? And you agreed?  
> Human: Yeah, so, when do we start?  
> Fey: …  
> Fey, blushing: Ah.


End file.
